


weren't stitched up quite right

by noctiphany



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Boys in Skirts, M/M, Rimming, age gap, cross dressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-16 00:25:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18680338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noctiphany/pseuds/noctiphany
Summary: "Max reaches down and tugs at the hem of the skirt. “Why.”





	weren't stitched up quite right

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration for this comes from here [.](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1z5WQCJN9vyTehGMYPlkf6mJ-l32JyXIQ/view?usp=sharing)

Max narrows his eyes over top of the newspaper in his hands when Bart gets home from school the next day, backpack slung over one shoulder and --

“That’s not funny.”

“What?” Bart says, blowing a big pink bubble that nearly ends up in all of his hair when it pops, then drops his backpack in the middle of the damn floor and spins around, the pleated green cheerleader skirt brushing against the back of his thighs. “I thought you said --”

“I’m pretty sure I did not say Bart go steal a cheerleader uniform,” Max interrupts, pulling the newspaper back up over his face, blocking his view of Bart _twirling._ “Now go do your homework.”

Bart huffs and stomps, but eventually, Max hears him make his way upstairs and slam the door. He probably won’t actually do any of his homework, but at least Max can stop digging his nails into his leg now. 

 

: : :

 

A few weeks later Max gets back from being kidnapped again to find Bart trying to figure out how to work the microwave to make a bag of popcorn, wearing a shirt out of Max’s closet and --

“Bart,” Max sighs and Bart jumps as soon as he hears his voice, tears across the kitchen and throws himself at Max.

“I knew you wouldn’t be gone for long,” he says, then takes Max’s hand and drags him forcefully into the kitchen and points at the microwave. “Help.”

“Mm,” Max says and leans over Bart’s shoulder, pressing against the back of him, to press the popcorn button on the microwave. Bart smells like sweat and candy, and a little like the cologne Max wears when he goes out with friends. “I can see where you had difficulty.”

Bart sticks his tongue out and Max reaches down and tugs at the hem of the skirt. “Why.”

Bart shrugs and hops up on the counter as he waits for the kernels to stop popping. “It’s comfortable. I like it.”

“You ran out of clean clothes when I was gone.”

“That too,” Bart says, swinging his legs back and forth, and Max -- 

Max isn’t built for this. 

He steps forward, putting his hand on Bart’s knees to hold him still while he stands between them. Bart looks up at him, eyes as big and round and always, but just a little bit brighter, and licks his lips. 

“I knew you were coming back,” he says, pressing the tops of his feet to the back of Max’s thighs.

“I always do,” Max says and slides his hands up higher, until his fingers touch the hem of Bart’s skirt and starts pushing it up his thighs. “Tell me you were at least good while I was gone.”

“ _Max,_ ” Bart whines and Max just stares at him, hot and dark and for so long Bart starts to squirm, then grabs Bart by his (too skinny, never eats right) hips and bends him over the counter, kneels behind him and buries his tongue inside of him. 

Bart screams and bucks, reaches back and pulls at what little hair Max has left on his head, says Max’s name over and over as Max fucks his tongue into him. Max knows he should care about someone hearing, probably, that nosey neighbor Mrs. Conway maybe, but he can’t locate the willpower to care about anything except this. 

He needs this. He’s covered in bruises from head to toe, his chest a literal mural of black and blue with enough new scars to cover up the old ones. Bart had no worries that he was going to make it back this time, but he doesn’t know how close he came. He doesn’t know how Max begged, how he almost told them everything just to make the torture stop. He doesn’t know that the only reason he didn’t is because of him. 

“Max, Max, Max,” Bart whimpers. “Max, please. I want --”

“Shh,” Max says, standing up and turning Bart around, licking inside his mouth as Bart’s hands and fingers fly over him, yanking off his shirt, pulling off his belt, unzipping his pants. It’s the one time Max forgets to remind him to use normal speed, the one time _he_ forgets, and just grabs Bart’s thighs, wraps his legs around him, and pushes up inside of him. 

“Max,” Bart cries out and Max bites his throat when he tosses his head back, presses Bart against the back of the refrigerator for leverage, knocking magnets and photos and take-out menus off as he thrusts into him. 

“You’re hurt,” Bart says in the middle of all of it, pressing his fingers gingerly over a bruise on Max’s shoulder, locking eyes with Max as he pounds into him, and something flashes in Bart’s eyes that Max has only seen once or twice but is always terrifying. “I’ll hurt them back.”

Max comes with a shout, burying it in the crook of Bart’s neck, and Bart follows him right over, whispering promises into Max’s skin that Max sure as hell hopes he doesn’t keep.


End file.
